A Philistine in the Shingle Museum

The Nantucket Historic District Commission meets for its weekly deliberations in the cafeteria of the island’s Cyrus Peirce Middle School, with catering provided by the on-site vending machine. Dirk Roggeveen, the HDC’s chair, volunteers that the multihour affairs can be “painful to watch.” Created in 1955 to “promote the general welfare of the inhabitants of the Town of Nantucket through the preservation and protection of historic buildings,” the commission’s jurisdiction was later expanded by the state to cover the entire island; as a result, its five elected members and three alternates now preside over just about every piece of exterior construction and renovation that takes place here. And given that the old whaling outpost today produces little beyond novelty T-shirts and overpriced cocktails, having final say in things like dormers, skirts, gables, eaves, and roof walks amounts to veto power over a huge slice of its economic activity. As they exercise this authority, the commission members engage in deliberations that can be suggestive of amateur architecture critics squabbling in the back seat during a Sunday drive. At one recent meeting, secretary Linda Williams pushed aside a set of plans for a proposed façade change with a sniff. “It’s a weird house,” she said. “I don’t hate it,” said Roggeveen, by way of defusing the situation.

Ever since he bought the house at 105 Main Street in late 2004 for $2.1 million, Edward DeSeta has become a recurring character in the commission’s restored-parlor farce. At times, he seemed to be coming to the cafeteria every Tuesday, always seeking the commission’s approval for a change he wanted to make to his property: to convert a garage into a living space, to rebuild a wooden fence, to replace a window sash. But no session was as contentious as the one that took place on June 27, 2006, when the agenda described the discussion to take place about 105 Main as an “administrative matter”—a term evidently used to describe an instance when the commission is put in the awkward, and disempowering, position of scolding a homeowner for work already done.

At the time, the 300-year-old house at 105 Main sat in constructive disrepair, its foundation exposed and many of its walls yanked out entirely. DeSeta, his wife, Wanda, lawyer William Hunter, and architect Rex Ingram took their places around the tables in the school cafeteria, accused of covertly collaborating on a “gut rehab,” as one of the commissioners dismissively called the million-dollar renovation under way. Throughout the hearing, Roggeveen had to repeatedly counsel his colleagues against “emotionalism.” It proved a tall order: To them, DeSeta had already begun to destroy, in concentric circles of importance, one of the island’s most prized vintage houses; a community’s sense of historical identity; and a powerful board’s ability to define architectural appropriateness for the island.

As he made his client’s case, Hunter appeared to be arguing that last point directly to Roggeveen, conceding that while, yes, the DeSetas were taking apart the walls of their house—which he said were rotten—there was nothing the commission could do about it. After all, the state law that created Nantucket’s historic district seemed to limit the commission’s purview to only the exteriors of buildings: It “shall not consider…interior arrangement or building features not subject to public view.” Essentially, Hunter was raising a question of architectural definitions worthy of the Sphinx: Were walls part of the house’s interior, or exterior?

The commission pointed to a subsequent, broader clause that says it’s a violation “for any person to raze any building or structure without having first obtained from the commission a permit for such razing.” “I don’t think you can stand there and tell us with a straight face that you can piece by piece replace an entire house so that every piece of wood in the house is new—on one of the oldest residences in Nantucket—and then tell us that it didn’t require a demolition permit,” said Roggeveen. “You can piecemeal demolish and replace one wall at a time. And pretty soon there’s nothing.”